


If I Fell

by baran



Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (2015)
Genre: Desperately in need of a beta, F/M, Historical Figures, Illya realising stuff, Napoleon Solo Ships Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller, Napoleon is a Good Friend, Rating May Change, Tags May Change, Whump
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-29
Updated: 2021-03-02
Packaged: 2021-03-10 19:00:59
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 14,037
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28412058
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/baran/pseuds/baran
Summary: After a mission gone wrong, Illya is trying to deal with his feelings towards Gaby. Napoleon is just trying to be understanding, but would also like to kick some sense into his friend.
Relationships: Illya Kuryakin & Napoleon Solo, Illya Kuryakin/Gaby Teller
Comments: 44
Kudos: 49





	1. 1

Napoleon Solo was standing in front of Illya’s door at ten p.m. on a Thursday night, brushing off stray snowflakes from his coat with one hand, the other gripping a brown paper bag with a bottle of bourbon inside. He shuffled his feet a little before rolling his eyes at his own hesitation and knocking in a familiar rhythm that the tree of them used to identify one another. He heard soft footfalls and after a few seconds Illya opened the door, looking like death warmed over.

The Russian was wearing uncharacteristically shabby clothes - an old grey undershirt fraying at the collar, a pair of soft black cotton pants and surprisingly fluffy navy socks. Napoleon decided against commenting on his choice of wardrobe when he noted black circles and stress lines around his friend’s eyes. Instead, he just tilted his head questioningly and Illya shuffled to the side to let him in. 

Solo took off his jacket and after a pointed look from his partner bent down to remove his shoes. Honestly, Slavs and their weird clean floor loving culture. 

Shoes off and put on an old tea towel by the front door, he made his way to the living room and deposited the bottle from the bag on the low coffee table. He heard Illya sit in one of the two threadbare-yet-comfortable armchairs and turned his attention to the cupboard in the corner to fish out two glasses. He then padded to the kitchen and got some ice out of the freezer, trying not to think about how well he knew Peril’s apartment. After three years of working closely people tended to get to know each other well after all. 

Napoleon leaned on the kitchen counter and sighed, trying to release some of the stress still clinging to him like an annoying hangover. After a few moments the ice in his hand started to sting a little and he was brought back to the mission at hand. He walked back to the living room, a pleasant expression plastered on his face.

“So…” he said and sat a tumbler full of bourbon in front of Illya, making himself comfortable in the second armchair. He raised his eyebrows and took a sip of his own drink, ice cubes clinking.

“So,” said Illya, expression stony. He was leaning on his knees and did not even glance in the direction of his own glass. 

Napoleon waited a few beats, trying to shake the unease he felt when the Russian looked... haunted, for the lack of a better description. 

“So, I need you to… I don’t know, talk to me?” He cringed inwardly at the uncertainty in his tone.

“What do you want to talk about.” 

Napoleon almost felt the full stop instead of the question mark at the end of the sentence.

“Peril, you know exactly what I want to talk about.” Why, oh why was it so much harder to talk to somebody he actually cared about? 

“No.” Illya’s eyes did not move, he was still staring at his carpet like he wanted to turn it into stone. Solo was rapidly losing his nerve.

“I think it’s better that we talk it out before your temper blows up in our faces and endangers someone,” he bit out and took a long swing out of his glass. He knew that his Soviet friend was not exactly what one would call a great conversationalist, but this was getting ridiculous. The fate of their team depended on their communication and, surprisingly, it has been steadily getting better over the last three years they have been working together. If not for the recent nightmare of a mission and the subsequent fallout they would be out on the town, enjoying each other’s company, laughing (in Illya’s case smiling slightly), drinking and dancing (in Illya’s case watching like a hawk as Napoleon and Gaby proceeded to glide on the dancefloor).

“Someone already was endangered,” the blond ground out, his accent thicker than usual.

Napoleon sat his tumbler down on the table with a loud thunk and looked around the sparsely decorated room with wide eyes and slightly parted lips, trying to control his temper. It was not as Illya was the only one affected by this whole debacle. Finally, he took a deep breath and leaned towards the other man.

“Peril, she is going to be alright,” he breathed, willing his partner to help him a little, since obviously openness and honesty was not either one’s forte, but for God’s sake he was trying here!

Kuryakin’s eyes finally stopped studying the carpet as he glanced up, face tightly controlled. Solo saw the veins at his temples pulse as he ground his teeth. Napoleon was shocked to see Illya's eyes mist, hands gripping his knees tightly in a vain attempt to control their shaking.

“Illya,” he said, amazed at the gentle tone he managed to pull off, in spite of all the stress. “ _Please_ , talk to me.” 

These words seemed to break something in Illya, and Napoleon Solo saw something he thought he would never witness on his stoic friend's face - tears. 

They were making their way down his cheeks and Solo looked at them, transfixed. After a moment he gave himself a mental slap and, with as much calm as he could muster, reached across the table for Illya’s left hand. The Russian went still for a second and then let out a quiet sob, his free hand coming up to cover his eyes. Napoleon gripped Illya’s fingers as the other man’s shoulders shook for a few minutes. 

After a small eternity when Solo’s hand felt like it would never again regain circulation due to being clutched by a Soviet giant, the shaking in Illya’s shoulders seemed to subside. He let go of Napoleon’s hand, reaching to the pocket in his pants and pulling out an ancient-looking handkerchief. He unfolded it with trembling fingers and put it to his face using both palms. A few uneven exhales later he slowly lowered his hands, peering at Napoleon through soaked lashes.

“She…” his voice was hoarse and he paused to clear his throat “What I am supposed to do…? What happened… I wish it happened to me. I made choice… I waited for fucking four hours…” He muttered with a pained grimace.

“We didn’t know what we were getting into. If not for your planning, she might have died. And believe me, though I don’t love her the way you do I would gladly trade places with her, too,” Solo said quietly, meaning every word. He may not love Gaby in a romantic sort of way, but she was the sister he never had and he never wished her any harm.

“Love…” Illya’s face almost crumpled again as he repeated the word, eyes widening in sudden realisation. “Господи боже(1), _I love her_.” 

It was a night of surprises, it seemed. Though Napoleon knew for the longest time what his friend felt for Gaby Teller, he never in all their history as partners heard it uttered by the Russian. 

“Does she know?”

“No. I can never tell her,” Illya shook his head while closing his eyes, brow furrowed. “Last thing she needs is damaged KGB thug.”

In any other situation Napoleon would scoff at this blatantly ridiculous statement. But today was not an ordinary day and he decided not to antagonise his friend just as he was starting to open up.

“Why would you say that?” he just asked emphatically.

“We work together, she is my friend, my confession would be… not professional, make everything awkward. Then she asks for different partner, we both know Waverly gives her anything she wants and… and then I hardly ever see her again. Or worse. Oleg finds out and uses her against me...” The blonde took a deep breath, centering himself. This was as close to blabbing as Napoleon ever saw him. “Besides. Now is not time to think that. She needs space to get better.” 

“What she needs is for her partner to help her get better. And I don’t want to add to the list of your troubles, but you probably _do_ realise that the KGB may already have an idea about the depth of your devotion to our little East German defector.”

“Cowboy…”

“No, you listen to me Peril,” Solo was glad to hear them come back to their nicknames. It brought some semblance of normalcy to the situation. “I am not joking or being… you know, my usual irreverent self when I say she needs you. You can’t sit here and wallow in self-pity while she is out there, in pain. Now you get your giant blond ass to the hospital or I swear I am going to come here everyday and be a nuisance until you see reason!”

Illya scoffed quietly and the sound set Napoleon’s teeth on edge. 

“ _Do. Not. Argue,_ ” he ground out and the uncharacteristic steel in his tone seemed to surprise his partner.

Good.

“You don’t have to tell her, but she doesn’t need you second-guessing yourself now. She needs her partner, her friend, to be there for her. So. The way I see it you have five minutes to change and pack. We’re going to the damn hospital.” 

The image of Gaby, pale, unconscious and connected to all sorts of beeping machines, alone in her sterile hospital bed was still fresh in his mind. The only reason he left her, guarded by two of U.N.C.L.E.’s junior agents and Waverly gripping her slim hand tightly was to knock some sense into this big lump of Soviet misery in front of him. And he would be damned if he returned to her side empty-handed. He was not sure about the depth of Gaby’s feelings for Illya, but he knew that she needed all the support that their weird patchwork family was able to provide right now.

Something in his eyes must have moved his partner, because he abruptly stood up from his armchair and strode to the bedroom. Emerging only three minutes later, he was dressed in clean grey slacks, navy turtleneck and a dark-grey jacket. He was also carrying a black duffel bag. Napoleon let out a long exhale, put down his now-empty tumbler on the table and went to join the Russian, already tying his shoes next to the front door. As both put on their coats Illya held out his hand and raised one eyebrow.

“Car keys. You drank bourbon.” 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Господи боже - an exclamation similar to "Oh my god!". Please let me know if it's wrong, I took Russian in high school a milion years ago, lol :D
> 
> Reviews are gold that writers like to hoard.
> 
> You can also check out my tumblr (mondry-baran) if you want - after years of lurking I finally started posting stuff.


	2. 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wow, I was floored by the reception of the first little thing I posted. I posted it, went out to the countryside without Internet connection for a few days and when I came back there were actual comments waiting for me!  
> Thank you all for taking the time to read, comment, leave kudos! I hope not to disappoint!
> 
> If somebody would like to chat or brainstorm story ideas I'm on Tumblr (mondry-baran)
> 
> So, now let's torment our favourite characters some more :D

Chapter 2

It was the middle of the night when they reached The Royal London Hospital, but none of the staff dared to get in their way as they moved across floors to the section prepared specially for U.N.C.L.E. emergencies. They nodded at the two agents posted outside of Gaby’s room, Kuryakin noting with slight satisfaction that they remained alert even at this late hour.

Inside they were greeted by a prickly Waverly, who nonetheless clapped Solo on the back on his way out of the room, commending him for the job well done.

“I will be back tomorrow evening, as soon as I can extricate myself from meetings. I suggest we develop a schedule, try to take turns keeping an eye on her,” their boss said, turning slightly in the doorway. He closed the door quietly on his way out and now it was just them, unconscious Gaby and an oddly reassuring steady beep of medical equipment. At least she was alive and stable.

“Do they know how long this will take,” Illya asked Solo in a hushed voice, although he knew that she wouldn’t wake even if there was an earthquake happening right now.

“Doctor Khan said that they will keep her under for another twenty four hours. After that it depends on her healing abilities.”

Illya looked at Gaby properly for the first time since the extraction. Only her head, the upper half of her torso and both hands were visible, but she was covered in so many bruises and scrapes that her normal skin was barely visible. He knew that she had many more under the covers, as well as a broken bone and torn ligaments in one knee, a few broken toes and fingers, and, something that made even his KGB-trained stomach roll, two missing fingernails. But the worst was a head injury which made her not recognise him when he finally found her in that Nazi hideout and trash violently against his grip on her, even in spite of her injuries. He remembered fighting not to howl in rage when she looked at him, terror in her eyes.

“Do they know if… her head…”

“They don’t know yet.”

“Okay.” A beat. “Take taxi home, Cowboy. I will not be foolish anymore.”

“Like hell I will. We will figure out the schedule tomorrow morning, but right now I’m staying here. There is a portable cot in the closet, we can take turns.” 

Kuryakin looked at the American, his features barely visible in the half-lit room. He knew that arguing with Solo in this state would not yield results, the man could be more stubborn than Illya when he felt like it, so he just nodded and sat in the chair previously occupied by Waverly. 

“You take cot. I sit here.” 

  
  


***

  
  


Twenty four hours, five horrible coffee cups and two almost-breakdowns later, Illya was marched out of the room by Solo and Waverly while Dr Kahn woke Gaby up. Logically, he knew that it was pointless for him to sit by her side as the doctor worked, but when he finally allowed himself to be near her again he found it hard to let go. 

He cursed inwardly for taking so long to come and see her, the brief moment of wallowing in self-pity like a thorn in his side. He was supposed to be the honourable one, and yet it was Solo who had to whip him back into shape. All in all, it was another reason to stay away from any romantic entanglement with the little East German spitfire.

He sat in another rickety plastic chair that made his knees bend at an uncomfortable angle, trying to sort out his emotions and trying - but not entirely succeeding - to ignore the flashbacks from the dingy basement from which he extracted Gaby’s battered body. They have been infiltrating a cell of T.H.R.U.S.H. in the outskirts of Zurich when Gaby failed to check in for the second time over the radio and he could not fight his protective instinct anymore. Luckily, Solo was not hard to persuade to help, but it still took them almost a full day to locate the damn warehouse and a few hours to call for reinforcements, plan and execute the extraction. 

Up until the point when they deposited Gaby in a stretcher inside of a plane organised by Waverly, he packed all his emotions in the back of his head, vision tunnelling and focus only on the task at hand, but with each passing moment the cord that tethered him to sanity kept stretching and stretching... When it was finally over and they reached London he suffered the worst psychotic break since his KGB training. He felt so numb, spent and was filled with so much self-loathing after the episode that he crawled back to his small apartment in West London, leaving bewildered U.N.C.L.E. cleaning staff to make sense of his demolished office.

He glanced at his bruised knuckles in disgust and snorted quietly, making Waverly glance at him from across the hall. The older man probably knew all about the destroyed office, but chose to remain silent for the time being, putting off his reprimand until after Gaby was declared safe.

“Mr Waverly?” Illya looked up to see dr Khan’s tired face as she stepped out of the room and regarded the three men seated in the hall. “She’s slowly regaining consciousness. It’s still too early to assess any damage to her head, but our scans don’t show anything that seems particularly troubling.”

“So, you’re basically saying you know shit,” Solo bit out, a long way from his usual cheerful self.

“Agent Solo, need I remind you that we still don’t know a lot about how the brain works?” The dark-skinned doctor took off her spectacles and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Until she is well enough for some tests, we cannot be one hundred percent sure there is no damage. Or would you like me to lie to make you feel better?” She paused for a brief moment in which all three men scowled. “I thought so. Now, if you behave yourselves you may go in, one at a time. I am restricting each visit time to five minutes.”

“Gentlemen, if you will excuse me,” Waverly said, standing up and trying to straighten his crumpled suit jacket. Doctor Kahn nodded and strode towards her office on the other side of the hall.

Both Solo and Kuryakin watched him as he entered Gaby’s room, but then Illya felt his friend’s eyes on him.

“You can go in and see her, you know,” Napoleon said quietly. He did not know how his partner noticed his apprehension, but somehow felt grateful for it. 

“She did not recognise me, before,” Illya murmured. “What if I come inside and scare her? Her condition could get worse because of me.”

“We’ll cross that bridge when we get there. If she recognises Waverly and me it might be a safe bet that she recognises you too. But if she reacts badly you have to remember she’s most likely still disoriented from all the drugs and… y’know, head trauma.” Napoleon’s last words were almost a whisper. After that they were both silent until it was the American’s turn to see their partner. 

Illya exchanged a nod with their boss and went back to staring at the greenish linoleum on the floor. Solo emerged five minutes later, and judging from the look on his face Gaby’s condition was not as bad as he feared.

“She’s asking for you,” Napoleon murmured as they were passing each other in the doorway and Illya felt a weight lift off his shoulders.

He entered the half-lit room, features immediately softening as he saw Gaby propped up on a few pillows, looking small and tired, but somehow also fierce in the hospital bed.

“Hey,” he said quietly, closing the door and striding swiftly to the chair in which he spent most of the last twenty four hours.

“Hey Brummbär (1),” her voice was hoarse, but she still somehow managed to make her tone teasing. 

“I see you have not hit your head so hard if you are still calling me that nickname.”

“And here he goes, grumbling again. That nickname is well-deserved and you know it.” She smiled slightly, making the world a little bit better for him in that instant. She moved her less injured hand, putting it palm-up on the covers, an expectant look on her face. He took her hand, encircling it in his two big ones tenderly.

“If you ask me how I’m feeling I will smack you, Illya Kuryakin. I already had to go through that two times with Alexander and Napoleon. I am as well as I can be in this situation, end of story.”

“I would never dream of asking you such intrusive questions.”

“Good,” she said, narrowing her eyes at him in a way he liked best. It meant she was determined to get him to have fun with her. “Now, tell me what has been happening for the past seventy-two hours.”

“Well… “ he cleared his throat, thinking how he could present the story in such a way as to give her the least possible amount of stress, deciding that defaulting to their long-running inside joke was the best option. “You were, of course, rescued with the help of an entire legion of Spetsnaz, which as we all know is most deadly special force in entire world. With their help we dispatched over fifty T.H.R.U.S.H. mercenaries that were hiding in 400-year old castle outside Zurich, very well protected, with moat and alligators and everything. When we went in, it turned out that the castle was filled with priceless art from many Soviet Republics stolen during Second World War, so besides extraction operation we brought back over hundred art works for Soviet citizens to enjoy. I have been awarded Order of Red Star and just got back from Moscow in time to see you wake up. In fact, my plane landed just forty minutes ago.”

“Oh.” Gaby’s eyebrows rose so much that they were nearly invisible under the bandage on her forehead. “Alligators in Switzerland?”

“Yes. Water in moat was being warmed by special equipment,” he deadpanned.

“Can I see the medal?” She asked innocently.

“Erm… no.”

“And why is that?”

“To encourage spirit of communism there is only one medal made and you get to wear it only during ceremony, then give it to the next person awarded. There are no pictures, of course.”

“Of course.”

They looked at each other for a moment, smiling.

A sharp knock burst their little bubble a few seconds later. Dr Khan came into the room, flipping through a medical chart.

“Kuryakin, your time is up,” she said, glancing at him briefly before turning her attention towards Gaby. “We have to talk about the recuperation program I prepared for you and I need to do it before you fall asleep again.”

That would not do. He just got her back and he had to go? Surely, there was something that he could do.

“I want to help. I have medical training,” Illya blurted out, making the two women look at him, one in surprise, the other with visible doubt.

“Field medic training is not the same as a professional physical therapy diploma,” the doctor eyed him critically. 

“I can learn. I know she will need someone to train with,” he risked a glance at Gaby, who was probably too tired to argue right now and instead she just sat in her bed, looking at him curiously.

“Hmm… maybe the idea has some merit. I will put you in contact with our Head of Physiotherapy. Now, shoo!” Dr Khan made a dismissing motion with her free hand and turned to her patient. 

Small victories, Illya thought to himself and left the room, closing the door behind him quietly. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) Brummbär - grouch. The perfect nickname for Illya I reckon.


	3. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Again, thank you for the wonderful reviews, it's amazing that somebody's actually reading this :D I hope not to disappoint you!

Chapter 3

The Head of Physiotherapy turned out to be a slight brown haired man in his early forties with a good-natured smile. He strode into Gaby’s room the next morning, wearing a tracksuit under his white coat and introduced himself as Dr Ben Morris, speaking in a Welsh accent that Illya had to concentrate hard to understand. Fortunately, Gaby’s English skills were better than his and she was nodding along when the doctor explained her treatment going forward.

One of the sentences caught Illya’s attention though.

“… so we will begin today by…”

“Wait, wait. Begin today? She is too weak,” the Russian narrowed his eyes at the doctor whose smile faltered a little under the scrutiny.

“Agent Kuryakin, it is very important that we start with simple exercises now so the patient does not lose her muscle strength completely. Yes, she is weaker now than usual, but laying around and doing nothing can only make matters worse,” Morris said, nodding in Gaby’s direction, who only arched her eyebrows at Illya, her eyes clearly conveying _I am doing this whether you like it or not_ so he wisely chose to say nothing, returning to sitting menacingly, arms crossed over his chest. He could respect the other man’s willingness to stand up to him in spite of the significant size difference. 

“So…” Gaby started reluctantly as Morris finished describing her training regimen while mostly bed-ridden for the next five days.”How long do you think it’s going to take for me to get back to the field?”

The doctor’s cheerful expression turned serious and much to Kuryakin’s irritation he grasped Gaby’s hand.

“Agent Teller… You suffered some serious injuries and while you are young and fit, I would not recommend going back to active duty for the next three months, and I think dr Khan will agree with me.”

She inhaled sharply and Illya felt himself do the same. Three months. There was no way he would be able to be here all this time to help her get better.

“Even three months is pushing it quite a bit. You will have to concentrate on your physical therapy and train every day, do you think you can do that?” Morris finished his explanation and waited for his patient’s reaction with raised eyebrows. Finally, Gaby snorted quietly and smirked.

“Doctor, I was a ballerina. You won’t be able to keep me in this bed for much too long.”

“Call me Ben, please. We’re going to be spending a lot of time together from now on,” he leaned to the bed a little and squeezed her hand and Illya had to fight not to audibly grind his teeth together. Gaby was her own woman, he had no business being jealous. 

“Now, I have to do some tests if you don’t mind,” Morris reached for the covers when Gaby nodded and pushed them aside to reveal her unnaturally pale body, clad only in a thin hospital gown. Illya almost looked away at the sight, but stopped when he noticed her glancing at him nervously. He knew she was not usually bothered by him looking, plus he had seen her in far more revealing clothing. If he looked away now it would send a message that she was somehow damaged and he wanted to avoid that at all costs. So he watched as the small Welsh man poked and prodded, schooling his features into something resembling calm, or at least he hoped so. He also tried to concentrate on Morris’s prattling in case he needed it later to speed up Gaby’s recovery.

The physiotherapist finally finished, gathered his notepad and strode to the door. He turned, opening the door and blushed slightly.

“See you later, Gaby!” His eyes moved to Illya glowering in the hospital chair. “Ah… Agent Kuryakin.” The smaller man nodded and hastily closed the door behind him.

“What a nice man. I’m glad that he will be in charge of my therapy,” the little mechanic said sweetly, unsuccessfully hiding a smirk.

“Yes. Nice. Therapy.”

  
  


***

  
  


Doctor Ben Morris indeed proved to be a genuinely nice person. He was conscious of all her injuries but at the same time pushed her just enough so that she felt proud of herself and of the therapy’s progress. He was also a patient teacher for Illya, showing him all the basics so they could practice even when Ben was called away. He had a great sense of humor and liked the same records as Gaby, even going as far as helping Solo smuggle a gramophone to her room, much to their third partner’s dismay. All in all, they became fast friends.

When she was finally allowed outside of the room, Illya wheeled her to a brand new physiotherapy room, equipped with all kinds of gear to aid in her recovery. She was already allowed to move on crutches, but more than twenty paces and she was sweating so profusely and shaking so much that Ben once had to ask Illya to carry her back to her bed. Gaby was very grateful for that, both because she couldn’t move any more and because she missed her partner touching her in a non-medical sort of way. Since the extraction he has been even more tense and careful around her than usual and she was determined to get to the root of that new problematic development, so far unsuccessfully.

Before the latest mission they often shared casual touches, almost comfortable around each other after three years of working together closely and she came to depend on this contact. She was sure this was the most she would ever get and she intended to enjoy it. Ever since the mission in Istanbul where the trio became official partners and agents of U.N.C.L.E., Illya stopped looking at her like he had in Rome. She figured it must have been the fact that they would work with each other permanently that ended his infatuation with her. 

In Rome, she was someone who would soon be gone and maybe the briefness of the interaction was what attracted the KGB spy to her. But, just as they started working together on a regular basis he seemed to treat her first as a colleague, on the same level as Solo, and after they had spent so much time together and saved each other’s lives so many times - as a close friend.

Regardless of her own feelings and wants, she respected and treasured their friendship, so she reigned in her budding feelings and since then they kept everything frustratingly platonic. That is why she loved it when he touched her - a hand on the small of her back when she was playing his wife/fiancee/girlfriend during a mission, a finger tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear, his legs lightly kicking hers to arrange them into position when he stood behind her during marksmanship training (oh how she loved their time at the shooting range!), even his large hand patting her head ironically when she said something, in his opinion, exceptionally stupid - though when he did that she usually ended up elbowing him in the stomach.

To put it simply, she was embarrassingly, completely and utterly head-over-heels in love with her partner for at least two years, maybe longer. She suspected Solo and Waverly knew, but they did not say anything. She had no clue if Illya knew, but she had been guarding her heart well to avoid any awkwardness and potentially endangering their partnership. She guessed he would be quite embarrassed if he ever found out and would try to be a gentleman about rejecting her which would surely end in a disaster and at least a week long alcohol binge for her. 

At least.

Which is why she was now sitting on the padded floor of the physio room having the time of her life as Ben showed Illya how to massage her undamaged right leg. After two hours of gruelling therapy the muscles started twitching painfully and her doctor declared a much-needed break. 

As Illya’s large hands made their way from her ankle to the knee, Ben kept giving him encouraging instructions, his sunny personality in sharp contrast with the Russian’s set jaw.

“That’s it, you’re doing great! Go up, move your thumbs a bit more… Yes. You’re a natural, Agent Kuryakin!”

“Am fast learner,” the agent in question grumbled, his eyes never leaving the small mole on Gaby’s knee, so he did not notice Ben’s delighted smile. 

“Yes you are! Now, Gaby dear, I think it will be enough for today. You can maybe do some flexing exercises in the evening if you have the strength, nothing more!” The physiotherapist’s mock glare made her smile in spite of the exhaustion.

“Agent Kuryakin, if you don’t mind please continue like that for the next ten to fifteen minutes. Can you see Gaby to her room after? I have a new patient today, and the interview is supposed to start in five.”

When he left Illya’s eyes finally met hers, but he was still frowning.

“What’s got your panties in a twist?”

“Wha… what does that mean?!” It was worth trying out the new English phrase just to see Illya look at her with a mixture of surprise and horror, frown forgotten.

“Napoleon told me that I can use it if somebody looks like they have been wearing underwear that is too tight for the whole day. You look like that. So, out with it.”

Her partner groaned quietly and much to her dismay put her foot down.

“Is Morris. He calls me _Agent Kuryakin_ and you just Gaby.”

She had to hide her snicker, he sounded just too much like a petulant child.

“We both agreed to use our first names. And everyone calls you _Agent Kuryakin_. I think the only people who use your given name are me and Napoleon. You intimidate others, you know,” she smiled and felt him relax a fraction. ”And you can get back to work, Agent,” she poked him lightly with her big toe and Illya rolled his eyes, but nevertheless resumed the massage.

“Obviously, I am the scariest thing these weak capitalists have ever seen, is natural they feel respect,” he said with a hint of a smile in his voice as he concentrated on her calf, almost making her moan.

“Maybe next time you can ask him to call you by your name," she mused, trying to ignore the feelings that his hands were rousing in their wake. Unsuccessful, she felt a tingle go down her spine and prayed he didn’t feel her shiver. Gaby briefly wondered how it would be if his hands wandered further up, but quickly pushed the traitorous thoughts aside. Nothing good ever came from those anyway, besides right now privacy to take care of her needs was currently non-existent with her three (mostly two, but Alexander was really trying his best) guardian angels on constant rotation and a nurse who helped her with every shower. 

Nothing to do but grit her teeth and wait.

***

A week and a half into Gaby’s therapy Illya was dozing in the cot that made even the smallest and lumpiest of beds seem like a five-star hotel luxury when he heard a whimper. He opened one bleary eye and leaned on his right arm, careful not to put his weight on the springs that groaned like demons from hell every time they compressed. He managed to interrupt Gaby’s sleep with his ungraceful shuffling two times already and he wasn’t going to risk a third. 

A muffled cry had him quietly getting up and padding towards the big bed.

She was moving as much as her cast allowed, limbs twitching, brow sweaty and furrowed and he guessed she was feverish, again. His hand hovered over the button that would summon the nurse with a fresh dose of painkillers, but a louder cry had him rethink this strategy. 

She wasn’t in pain as he had previously assumed, at least not the physical kind. She was obviously having a nightmare.

He leaned over her just as she started mumbling in German, so he gently shook her shoulders.

„Gaby…” 

„Nein!!” she shot up suddenly and his hands gripped her shoulders tighter for a second. Her eyes darted around the room wildly, widening in fear when they finally landed on him. His heart clenched almost painfully.

„Gaby, is me,” he whispered, channeling almost all of his energy into staying calm. A moment later he felt her relax a little and he let go as she sank into the cushions.

„Oh…” she said quietly, voice hoarse. „I’m sorry I woke you up.”

„Don’t worry, wasn’t sleeping so well anyway,” he glanced at the cot with visible disdain, trying to infuse some humor into the situation.

„You don’t have to sleep on this gottverlassen (1) thing almost every night, you know,” she chuckled.

„Maybe I do,” he replied, tone somewhat darker than he intended. His guilt and worry for her would eat him alive if he went back to his apartment every night. He felt a little better, watching over her while she slept, calling the nurse if necessary and now waking her up from the nightmares. Which he was the cause of, he thought, remorse washing over him for the hundredth time since Zurich. He realised he was still looming over her, so he sat on his cot, springs lamenting metallically.

„I am a big girl, height notwithstanding. You would rest better if you slept in your own bed,” she looked at him with fond exasperation and it was almost too much for his guilty state of mind.

„But do you rest better if I am here?” he asked quietly, hating that his voice sounded much more vulnerable than he intended it to.

„If I said no would you go home?” she sighed when he gave her a carefully neutral stare. „All right, all right. I guess I do sleep better when you are here. But still I feel so guilty that you are not getting proper rest.”

He scoffed at the last sentence and crossed his arms over his chest, fixing a stare on the huge bouquet on the table in the corner with a glittering „Get well” card from the U.N.C.L.E.’s R&D department. What was she doing, talking about feeling guilty for doing something so insignificant, when it was his decision that caused her unnecessary pain. Didn’t she know he would sleep in this tiny cot for the rest of his life if it meant that even one of her injuries could be magically cured right now? 

He closed his eyes and shook his head at those ridiculous thoughts. Of course she didn’t know, he kept all his feelings for her well hidden, at least from her. He exhaled slowly and willed his index finger to stop twitching.

„You cannot feel guilt over something small like that.”

„But you have to rest sometime! I am the team member with insomnia, remember?” there was a pause and she continued in a much quieter tone „Besides, it’s all my fault I ended up like that so you shouldn’t coddle me.”

What.

„What _are_ you talking about?!” he almost jumped up from his sitting position. How could this whole situation be possibly her fault?!

„I let myself get caught, almost made you botch the mission and landed in the hospital for three months, making me useless as an agent, that’s what,” she said through clenched teeth, tone full of self-reproach. Was that what she had been thinking all this time?

„If anyone is to blame it has to be me.”

Gaby looked up at him sharply, surprise with an undertone of anger - at herself, at him, at the situation, he couldn’t tell - on her face.

„How can any of this be your fault?”

„I was not fast enough, finding you… And…” Illya felt his muscles clenching at the reminder of his failure and the fact that he was about to reveal his shame to Gaby, but it seemed unavoidable now. He had to make her see that she was innocent in all of this. „… and I was the one who made decision to wait, to have plan before we went inside warehouse,” he finished quietly, not meeting her eyes.

He heard her hands fall limply on the bed covers and risked a glance. She was staring at the wall, expression unreadable. Finally, she exhaled slowly and covered her face with the uninjured hand. 

„Illya…” her voice was muffled by her hand, which was now supporting most of the weight of her head. „I may be alive only because of you and your strategic thinking. You and Napoleon as well.”

He heard Solo make a similar statement, but he wasn’t swayed.

„No. I should know better, I should be able to protect you.”

„Nobody could have done a better job! So what if I’m missing a fingernail or two, you got me out!” she almost shouted, and the sound rang in his ears and in the dead of night.

„A… a fingernail!” he stuttered, disbelieving. „No one should be able to lay hand on you, ever!” his tone was also coming dangerously close to shouting.

„Illya, it’s the job. You and I both know the risks involved!”

„But you…! I… _Блядь_! (2)” he was close to tearing his hair out. He couldn’t possibly explain what seeing her there did to him. He couldn’t tell her how he felt about her.

„What? What is it about me that is different from you or Solo?” she was leaning on the bed now, looking at him with stormy eyes and he knew that if not for the cast on her leg, she would be standing on the bed right now, shouting German obscenities at him.

„I…” he felt as if they were on a precipice of something, their emotions all over the place. 

A devil at the back of his head telling him „just get over with it and confess already!”, her expression an odd mix of angry and pleading, his heart pounding in his ears. 

„I… need to protect my partners,” he choked out finally and the moment was gone. She averted her eyes and sighed quietly, deflating.

„I understand,” her tone had a finality about it that told him the discussion was over. „But it doesn’t mean I agree with you.”

She laid back on the pillows and closed her eyes.

„I think I would like to go back to sleep now.”

Everything was quiet except for the steady beat of medical equipment. They hadn’t managed to wake up the nurse on duty. 

„Of course. Sleep well, little Chop Shop Girl,” he said quietly and settled back on the cot. It was going to be a long night.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) godforsaken  
> (2) fuck
> 
> All this is reminding me how much I loved learning Russian. I guess I need to get back to it :)
> 
> Also, there is one easter egg hidden in the text, please let me know if you spot it!


	4. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reviews, kudos and all the love !  
> I hope you like this chapter, because I really liked writing it :)

Chapter 4  
  


When she woke up the next morning, the cot was gone, neatly tucked into the closet she assumed, and Illya was nowhere to be seen. Instead, Solo was sitting in the hospital chair, quietly reading the newspaper, looking like he stepped out of a fashion magazine. 

When he sensed her movement he raised his eyes from whatever he was currently reading, folded the paper in half and put it on the table next to the gigantic R&D bouquet.

„Hello, sleeping beauty!” he beamed and she didn’t know whether to smile or groan at his sunny disposition, the late night conversation with Illya still fresh in her mind. She settled on the former.

„Why are you always so happy in the morning?”

„To counter your owlish tendencies, of course!” he glanced at the bouquet and smirked „And whom might this monstrosity be from?”

„From the guys down at the R&D department. I guess they are missing their favourite mechanic…” she shrugged.

„Or taste… But one cannot expect it from engineers and scientists. What did Peril have to say about it?”

„Doesn’t he have a PhD in Quantum Mechanics?” she raised her eyebrow at her partner, good humor returning slowly under his influence.

„That is only one of his many faults. But he did look particularly dour when we passed each other in the hallway today,” Solo hopped on her bed, parking himself as usual at her less injured side.

„We might have had… a conversation last night.”

„Oh no, one of those!  _ Na und _ …(1)?”

„Nichts (2)! We had words.”

„Yes, that’s what conversation means, you know,” if she didn’t love him so much he would already be dead.

„He said some stuff, I disagreed, we went to sleep, end of story.”

„If you say so,” his gaze was way too knowing, but it seemed that he would let it slide, at least for now. She really was getting special treatment while recuperating.

„You are my favourite American, you know that?” 

„I will choose to take that as a compliment,” he grinned as there was a knock on her door and a moment later the nurse came in with her breakfast.

„Fantastic! I get to feed you today!” he exclaimed, winking at the nurse who, exhausted by the ending night shift, only rolled her eyes. „So, tell, me how’s it going with Ben?” he stirred some jam into her porridge and she didn’t have the heart to tell him off for his theatrics. She was perfectly capable of eating by herself - her right hand had almost stopped hurting - but she was willing to humor him today.

„We’re doing quite well. I didn’t expect this physical therapy to be so effective!”

„It’s something new they’ve been developing, especially with veterans, I hear…”

As he started spoon feeding her porridge they continued their usual morning gossip. Solo caught her up on office chatter and the news of an explosive end to the hottest U.N.C.L.E. HQ romance this month (She knew Joseph shouldn’t have gotten involved with Harriett from analytics! She would have to have a serious conversation with her boys from R&D when she got back) as well as news about Waverly’s newest pet cat, Xiao Mao. Two hours passed almost without her noticing. 

„As delightful as this morning has been, I’m afraid I have to go, Miss Teller,” Napoleon sighed and straightened his jacket as he got up.

„Thank you for being here, ’Leon,” she looked at him fondly even as he huffed at her for the use of his most hated pet name. 

„Whatever the lady requires. Do you want the paper?” when she shook her head no he stuck it under his arm and made his way to the door. „One more thing,” he paused before opening it.

„Whatever he said, go easy on Peril next time you see him. He’s been in a pretty bad shape lately, emotionally speaking,” Solo looked at her imploringly one more time and in a moment he was gone, leaving her to analyse his words.

She was positive he knew something she didn’t, and it bothered her.

  
  


*** 

Later that day Illya slunk into the physio room while Gaby and Ben were going through her warm up routine. She refused to look at him directly when he murmured a greeting and took off his shoes before stepping on to the mats, but in her peripheral vision she could see that his jaw was set and he had dark circles under his eyes. Ben, as per usual, brightened considerably when he saw the Russian and immediately started chatting with him, or, at least, chatting at him. 

„Agent Kuryakin, it’s good to see you! Did you have a good day at the office?”

Grunt.

„I hear that the Director is thinking of organising a small Easter party, do you think you’re going to be there? I’d love to get to know our co-workers a little bit better myself. It’s always good to talk and drink together in a more relaxed atmosphere, don’t you think?”

A noncommittal grunt.

„Gaby, please do ten more reps of that and let me know if anything hurts! Agent Kuryakin, would you mind helping me set up this machine?” the therapist pointed at an atlas in the corner and Gaby watched as the two men set up weights and pulleys to best accommodate her cast. Ben was still talking and smiling at Illya, while the other man remained impassive. From experience, she knew it meant that he was either strategising or going through some difficult emotions that required him to shut down all other non-essential systems like the ability to conduct small-talk. Since they were not on a mission, she was positive that his silence meant the former.

Through the years of their friendship she had learned to let him have his time to process emotions. By nature, she was an impatient and a bit impulsive individual, so at first it irritated her to no end that sometimes he was so slow in working out what he really felt, but she soon found out that trying to rush him only made him clam up tighter and resulted in more strained silence.

As they got to know each other better, they learned to read each other’s emotional cues, and as she got used to leaving him alone, he learned to shorten his reaction time or at least he learned to tell her when he needed her to give him some space. The third member of their group was also, slowly but surely, learning to let down his guard in front of them both and try not to turn everything into a joke or a one-liner. Things were working out pretty well for them, so she noticed that for Illya to be so closed up and rigid now, last night’s conversation must have somehow really hit him when it hurt the most. She desperately wanted to know why he reacted the way he did, but chose to wait until he told her himself. If he ever did, she thought ruefully.

„Okay, all set! Gaby, take your crutches and come here,” Ben called, shaking her out of her reverie.

She grabbed the nearest wooden bar she was sitting under and pulled herself up to a standing position. She then started skipping on one leg to get her crutches and begin the long ten meter trek to the corner where the two men were waiting for her. After the third skip she wobbled slightly and felt two large hands stabilise her waist.

„I would have been fine,” she groused, still feeling cross with Illya.

„I know. Just making sure,” he said quietly and went to retrieve her crutches, still not making eye contact. 

She stifled a sigh and hobbled over to her physiotherapist.

Illya remained tight-lipped for the rest of the day, going through their usual evening routine almost mechanically and she despaired the loss of their camaraderie that made the stay in the hospital that much more bearable. It seemed that he would not come out of his shell anytime soon.

After dinner he wordlessly went to the gramophone and put on her favourite record of the week, which she took as a small, albeit silent, peace offering, because usually she had to bully him to even consider even standing in the general vicinity of the machine.

After the nurse came and helped her with her nightly ablutions they both settled in to sleep, she on her huge bed, he in his tiny cot. When he quietly said „goodnight”, Gaby closed her eyes and resigned herself to a longer wait than usual.

***

Almost three weeks passed in a blur of tedious desk job, little sleep and helping in Gaby’s recovery. Illya was getting more and more antsy, believing that any second the KGB would come knocking at U.N.C.L.E.’s door, asking why their best agent was so idle. Although the Soviets claimed to adhere to strict labor laws that clearly stated that a worker had the right to rest, he figured that KGB agents were a special case. The way Oleg saw it, Illya with nothing to do in U.N.C.L.E. headquarters was a waste of resources and should be called back to Moscow. He was positive that Waverly knew that too, and was mentally preparing himself to be sent on a mission soon.

But right now he was still at the hospital, quietly observing as Gaby and Morris were apparently having the time of their lives in the middle of the training mat. His scowl must have been pretty obvious, because the pair stopped their giggling, Gaby narrowing her eyes at him, and the physiotherapist looking away with a slight blush. Good. He should know his place.

“Komm hier, you big Soviet statue!” His partner called, and his feet obeyed even without the clear command of his brain. For the first week after their late night argument she was tip-toeing around him a little, no doubt on Solo’s request, but after that she lost her patience and resumed treating him as she normally did. Only they have never really talked the issue out, so Illya had a feeling the chasm between them did not close completely, and the strain on their relationship persisted.

“Что. (3)” He loomed over the pair.

“Don’t what me, just sit down and listen to what the good doctor says!”

“I thought he was telling joke, so I don’t listen.”

He almost heard Gaby’s eyes roll in their sockets.

“Erm… I was just saying that the plaster should come off sometime next week, if the x-rays are all good and everything, so we should begin the next phase of your recuperation,” the smaller man had the sense to look sheepish. Illya did not know why it bothered him so much that he and Gaby had such easy camaraderie. He figured he just got used to the fact that he (and, he was willing to admit, Solo too) was her best friend and she reserved these kinds of relaxed smiles only for him, just a few weeks ago. 

“If the bone is all good we can start with bending the leg and working on the muscles around your knee. I am, however, a little bit worried about your ligaments. We don’t know for sure how badly they were torn or if they’re torn at all or just sprained. We will have to work on the knee’s stability and your ability to balance on one leg,” Morris stood up and gathered his discarded jumper from the floor. Illya had to admit that for a man of such slight build he had impressively muscled arms. The doctor’s eyes darted to him for a moment and he averted his gaze at once.

“Well, you know what to do from here, Agent Kuryakin, so I will leave you two to it,” He started to the door, turning to them and waving awkwardly. Gaby shot Illya a reproachful look and he groaned inwardly, deciding to humor his partner this time.

“Doctor…” Morris turned almost comically fast as he heard his voice.

“Yes…?” 

“Please… Call me Illya.” 

“Oh!” Morris adjusted his glasses nervously. “Thank you! I mean… call me Ben!”

“Yes.”

“So… Bye Gaby! Bye… Illya!” The physiotherapist skipped past the door and disappeared.

“That was nice,” the little mechanic eyed him from her position on the floor and he went down to her level, adopting what Gaby and Solo lovingly christened “the Slav squat”.

“Am trying,” he grumbled.

“Why are you so tough on him anyway? He’s trying so hard to make you like him.”

“I think he’s trying very hard to make you like him,” He poked her plaster where Solo signed it with a flourish, using some new capitalist invention called _Sharpie_ , and immediately made it his life’s mission to make Illya sign too, for now unsuccessfully.

“I told you he’s just a nice guy! Besides, he probably thinks it’s easier to start by becoming friends with me.”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean…” 

Gaby’s answer was cut short by Waverly appearing suddenly at the door, his expression carefully neutral.

“Kuryakin, can I talk to you? Gaby dear, I will call for a nurse to help you get back to your room,” he drawled in his posh British accent and immediately turned on his heel and left the room, looking like he expected Illya to follow him. 

“Seems like we will have to finish our talk later,” Gaby groaned as he unfolded himself to full height and stifled a sigh. He knew this day would come sooner or later.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) And..?  
> (2) Nothing  
> (3) What


	5. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A new chapter for the beginning of the weekend... Remember to relax, hydrate and read something good :D
> 
> Sorry, some more conflict in this one, but they both are too stubborn for their own good. I promise it's going to get better! Also, I couldn't resist adding one special character who is going to make an appearance soon.

Chapter 5

Waverly and Kuryakin drove through London in silence, heading to U.N.C.L.E.’s HQ and Alexander couldn’t help but glance at the KGB’s best a few times. For the past four weeks they have been trading taking care of his favourite agent, and as usual Illya showed unwavering patience and devotion towards Gaby, in addition to not-so-usual horror and grief at her injuries. He rarely manifested such strong emotions, so Waverly was wondering if the contingency plans he prepared for the, in his mind, inevitable start of German-Russian relations in his agency were about to finally be put in motion. Alas, the blonde giant once again proved that he was way tougher and more stubborn than anybody could imagine. 

U.N.C.L.E.’s number one sighed quietly as he stopped the car in front of their inconspicuous townhouse-cum-headquarters. He wondered if, perhaps, the stubborn lad might need a push in the right direction soon, if Gaby’s sanity and heart were to be preserved. After this mission, he would start looking into that.

Solo greeted them, hands in his pockets, leaning slightly on Waverly’s secretary’s desk, looking as suave as ever. All three men nodded to each other in greeting and entered his bug-proof office. When they were finally nestled in the brown leather armchairs, Alexander threw a dossier on the coffee table. Illya opened it, one eyebrow arched at his boss, but stilled as soon as he saw the photograph clipped on top of the documents.

“What…?”

“I’m assuming you are familiar with this man, then?” Alexander smirked slightly at Kuryakin’s expression. Of course he knew that Illya knew the man. Solo just stared at the photo, casually interested.

“Yes. Is my favourite author. But what does he have to do with mission?”

“Well, as it turns out, the CIA got a tip from the FBI that, in turn got it from, of all people, one of the American science-fiction writers (1) that the gentleman in this picture is actually not a nice, middle-aged Polish author, but the head of a secret communist group that has access to some mind-altering technology that could be used to sway people to their cause.” 

“And FBI and CIA believe this… how do you put it in English… это bullshit?” Illya’s face conveyed that, yes, in fact those idiots back at Langley could, in his mind, be that stupid.

“Doubt it. But there is more to this story, isn’t there?” Solo leaned back in his armchair, putting one leg over the other, showing off his impeccable oxfords. Waverly would have to ask Napoleon to introduce him to his shoemaker.

“I would not say that our American friends believe this claim. They have, however, let this bit of intelligence slip out and T.H.R.U.S.H. has intercepted it,” he explained and Illya let out a small huff, while Solo rolled his eyes.

“So, let me guess… Now T.H.R.U.S.H. thinks that this poor man really is the head of some shadowy organisation with access to mind-control? And here I thought they were actually quite smart,” Napoleon got up and drifted towards the alcohol cabinet in the corner.

“Why yes, Solo, please do help yourself,” Waverly called behind him as Illya started to leaf through other documents in the dossier.

“So now what… We go to Poland?”

“Exactly, Kuryakin. Krakow, to be exact. In the spirit of international cooperation, U.N.C.L.E. has been tasked with keeping this nice gentleman alive and out of Nazi clutches. Plus we get much-needed intelligence on the remaining T.H.R.U.S.H. cells and get a chance to smoke them out of Central Europe for good.”

“And protect CIA ass from letting everyone know they are bad spies,” Illya grumbled, but Alexander could see a glimmer of excitement mixed with apprehension in his eyes. 

“They say never meet your heroes, but I do hope Mr Lem exceeds your expectations, Kuryakin. You leave tomorrow at 6 a.m. sharp.”

  
  


***

  
  


„So… Where are you boys going this time?” Gaby asked when Illya visited her one more time in the evening against his better judgement. When he entered her room she was propped up on a few pillows, reading a magazine, the sound of The Beatles’s _Rubber Soul_ (that he even recognised this bit of music was a testament to how much attention he paid to Gaby at all times) coming from the illegal gramophone. He took her in, with slightly mussed hair and crumpled pyjamas and his heart swelled a little. He was suddenly overcome with gratitude that he found her alive. 

„Poland,” Illya replied casually, sitting down in his customary chair. 

„Oh…” he could see she was trying to preserve a neutral expression, but he knew her, and her fears, too well.

„It will be simple mission. Poland in not part of Союз (2).”

„Yes, but it’s still behind the Curtain.” During the three years they have been working together, not once did they go to the USSR on a mission together, though Illya was periodically called back home much to Waverly’s irritation and Gaby’s quiet terror. He pretended not to notice her reaction to his little excursions just as she pretended that she didn’t know he noticed.

„Is no problem. We will be in and out before anyone notices,” he smiled slightly while she narrowed her eyes.

„What has got you so happy all of a sudden? You were less-than-enthusiastic about the whole thing in the afternoon.” Yes, they knew each other much too well.

„I found out interesting detail.”

„Care to share?” she snapped her magazine closed and laid it down on the blanket with a soft smack. He saw that she was being more irritable than normal and decided to tread carefully.

„One, I found more proof that CIA are idiots, and please allow me to use your language when I say I feel Schadenfreude,” he crossed his legs and put up his index finger, counting. He could feel that his attempt at humor, albeit quite weak, amused her a little and eased the tension between them by a fraction. „Two, we will be meeting one of my favourite authors in entire Eastern Block and I can ask him questions, even get autograph. Here, I brought you his book. You should read,” he fished a small paperback from his coat pocket, almost giddy at the prospect of Gaby enjoying one of his favourite books.

She examined the cover carefully as he tried to control a wave of embarrassing emotions.

“ _ Solaris _ … Well, I will give it a try, it’s not like I have a lot to do besides physio. At least Ben stays here,” she mused and for a brief moment he felt his muscles spasm, mood shifting faster than a Soviet centrifuge. 

Thankfully, she was looking at the back of the book’s cover, so the reaction went unnoticed. He almost forgot about Ben Morris, but of course she had to bring him up at their last meeting in a few weeks. Illya tried to take as deep a breath as he could in this situation, seemingly silent and unbothered, willing his emotions to stay under control. He was a new communist citizen, he was a feminist, he didn’t  _ want _ to feel this way. She was her own woman and he wanted to honor her choices, but it did not change the fact that he desperately wished  _ he _ was the most important man in her life. That she would talk about  _ him _ like that, just casually dropping his name in a conversation with somebody, like he  _ belonged _ to her. It was ridiculous, illogical, it stood in direct opposition to his beliefs, but he felt it anyway. So, suppression was the way for him. Only sometimes his pesky emotions surfaced before he could reign them in.

“ _ Ben _ will stay here, yes,” he couldn’t, for example, control the level of spite in his voice this time. She looked up immediately hearing his tone, brow furrowing and hand clutching the book just a little bit tighter. 

“What was _ that  _ supposed to mean?” she asked slowly, voice dangerously low and he saw she was spoiling for a fight, and that it was a long time brewing.

“I mean that is good that he will keep you company. After all, he is  _ so nice _ .”

“You… you are acting like a child!” she slammed the book hard on the edge of the bed and he ground his teeth. This was getting out of control, fast.

“Am not. Just stating fact.  _ You like him _ ,” he seethed, too far gone to stop and beg for her forgiveness. 

“Even if I did, what’s it to you? Why are you so mad about it, huh?”

He stood up from the chair and started pacing the room, utterly failing to contain the wave of anger threatening to overwhelm him.

“Mad! You can see who you like. I have nothing to say about it!”

“Exactly! So why are you acting like that?”

“I…” he stopped in the middle of the room, one finger pointing in her direction as a retort died on his lips. He balled both fists and resumed his pacing.

“ _ Scheiße!  _ (3) We have been dancing around this for almost a month! Tell me what is wrong, du riesiges Arschloch! (4)”

“There. Is. Nothing. To. Say.” he growled. He was almost vibrating with the need to either tell her how he felt or to destroy some poor piece of furniture, he wasn’t entirely sure in his furious haze.

“Then get out of my face!” she finally shrieked “I don’t want to see you anymore if you won’t tell me anything!” she pointed at the door and he was struck to see unshed tears in her eyes. “I have had enough! I thought we were friends!” the knife twisted in deeper.

“Fine,” he whispered, face ashen.

“Fine!” she shouted in return.

He turned on his heel, slammed the door and pretended not to hear her angry wail on his way out.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> OMG, sorryyyy! I am such a sucker for making them suffer... On the other hand, get ready for some wholesome Stanislaw Lem content, I read his biography a while ago and decided to write him into this story. If you haven't read his books and like sci-fi I highly recommend them.
> 
> (1) It's a true story and it was Phillip K. Dick who made these claims. I read that he couldn't get over the fact that Lem's writing was so stylistically diverse and thought that it must be a group of people under a pseudonym, not one balding, middle-aged Polish guy with a horrible sweet tooth.   
> (2) /Soviet/ Union  
> (3) Shit  
> (4) You huge asshole


	6. 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the later than usual update, I had a crazy week at work T_T  
> Thank you everyone who took the time to read, leave kudos and review! I really enjoyed writing this chapter - a little less romance, but there's an appearance by a historic character. I read a great biography of his a while ago, so hope I did him justice.  
> Also, Illya finds out an important detail in this one :D

Chapter 6

When they disembarked the brand-new Ил-18 in Krakow-Balice airport the next day, Illya’s knuckles were bruised and bloody, but Solo decided not to comment. They took a taxi to the city center and settled into a hotel in the Old Town, all the while his partner continued brooding. They were to make contact with their target in the early afternoon, when he usually drove into town to pick his wife up from the hospital she worked in.

Napoleon stopped trying to talk to Illya sometime after they boarded the plane this morning, so they prepared their respective gear and walked to the location provided by their intelligence in silence. Solo almost couldn’t bear the quiet, but at this point he was well aware that almost nothing could be done to end it, short of starting a fight. That is why he was quite surprised when, a few minutes into their walk, Illya glanced at him uncomfortably.

“We had fight,” he muttered, almost too quiet for Napoleon to pick up.

“I suspected as much. What happened?” 

“I was jealous хуй (1). I didn’t have right to act like this.” 

“Jealous of what? Acted like what?” Solo wondered, but tried to keep his tone neutral, not to annoy the big Soviet bear he called his friend. He knew such displays of honesty were rare and did not want to spook the man, especially if he started the conversation himself. 

“ _ Ben Morris, _ ” Illya almost spat out the name and Napoleon’s eyebrows shot up instantly.

“What?! Ben…? But… why would you…?”

The Russian sighed, the brief flame in his eyes extinguished. Right now he just looked exhausted.

“Gaby likes him. I… maybe I got irritated by that.”

“Why would you be _ irritated _ that Gaby likes Ben?” he couldn’t wrap his head around the concept. Unless…?

“I shouldn’t be, I know. Am not proud of that. She has right to be with whomever she chooses. I should be happy for her!” Illya despaired and Solo stopped dead in his tracks. He didn’t know whether to laugh or grab his friend and give him a good shake.

“Peril…” he choked out, and the Russian abruptly stopped and turned to face him. 

“What is it, Cowboy?”

A deep breath.

“Don’t you know that Ben... um... I don't know how to put this delicately... prefers men?”

“ _ What? _ ”

“And he has been trying to get closer to you for the past few weeks?” he watched as colour slowly drained from Illya’s face.

“What.” it seemed that his partner’s brain had stopped functioning correctly. 

“Well, this is awkward. You didn’t know,” Illya nodded mutely. “And you argued with Gaby because you were jealous of a guy that is actually attracted to you,” he noticed the tell-tale twitch in his partner’s finger and wondered if dropping this bombshell on him at such a time was a good idea. Maybe not. He looked around and saw a small park on the other side of the street then proceeded to check his watch, making sure they still had plenty of time to make it to the rendezvous point. “C’mon, Peril, let’s sit there for a minute.”

He took his partner’s arm, dragged him across the street and sat down on the first available bench.

“All right. Now, take a deep breath. In and out.”

They started breathing together, Solo still holding Illya’s arm, but loosening his grip a little. He learned throughout the years it was good to have some kind of physical connection with him while he was having an episode, so he resorted to one of the few socially acceptable touches between men in a public space. Thankfully, it was still the middle of the workday so the park was mostly deserted. They sat like that for almost twenty minutes before Illya’s twitching subsided.

“Now, feeling better?”

“Don't know if better. Maybe I just don’t have urge to destroy things. But am definitely still angry. At myself.”

“Well, if your ability to form sentences is coming back I’d say you’re feeling better. You don’t need to worry so much, when we get back just talk to Gaby and explain the whole misunderstanding.”

“And tell her what, exactly? That I am so stupidly in love with her that I was jealous of her doctor and didn’t notice he was attracted to  _ me _ ?” Illya glared at him, but he could see the levels of anger had already lowered to manageable.

“You could tell her that, yes. Frankly, I think she deserves to know the truth,” he knew a lost battle when he saw one, but still couldn’t resist trying one more time. Since his friend’s revelation a few weeks ago he mostly kept his mouth shut, mainly because they traded shifts watching over Gaby and didn’t spend so much time together. Now that the subject was broached by Illya himself, he did not see any harm in stating his opinion. 

“Never going to happen, Cowboy. I told you that already.” Well, that was anticlimactic.

“You should reconsider. But right now I need to know if you’re good to go, okay?” He studied Illya for a moment until the other man sighed and relaxed his shoulders a little.

“Yes, am good to go.”

“We’re finally going to meet that favourite author of yours! Excited?”

Illya just rolled his eyes and got up from the bench with a long-suffering sigh.

  
  


***

Stanislav Lem was having a normal day. He woke up at four a.m. as usual and got a lot of writing done before driving his wife to work. He went back home, wrote some more and before he knew it, it was time to drive to the city center again to pick Barbara up. He hopped into his Wartburg 1000, whistling a tune he heard on the radio this morning, turned on the engine and reversed dynamically, getting the car out of the garage and onto the driveway. In the rear view mirror he saw his neighbour’s wife run to her kids and grab the two toddlers off the street. Funny, she always did that when she saw his car. 

He shrugged. 

Maybe the kids were naughty and liked to run after cars, who knew.

Still whistling, he drove through his suburb, speeding and honking the horn to his heart’s content. When he finally reached his destination, he stopped the car, tyres screeching, ignoring the bewildered stares of pedestrians. 

He was just closing the door to his Wartburg when a big shadow shrouded the bright red paint of the car's front door in darkness. He turned, startled, and looked up to see an impassive face of a very tall, blonde man.

“Can… can I help you?” he said, gaping slightly. Suddenly, the man raised a Russian copy of  _ Solaris _ to his face.

“Can I get an autograph, please?” he asked in the same language. Stanislav breathed a small sigh of relief, reassured he was not getting mugged. 

“Of course, yes,” Lem replied, also in Russian, and the man produced a fountain pen seemingly out of thin air. “Whom do I sign it for?”

“Illya Kuryakin. Do you mind if my friend here takes a picture of us?” A second man appeared, this one slightly shorter, but impressively built and wearing a better tailored suit than anyone had a right to in the People’s Republic of Poland.

“Not at all. You can photograph my car, too. I just bought it a few weeks ago and it drives like a dream.”

The blonde nodded and positioned himself on Stanislav’s right, putting an arm around him. As his friend was setting the camera up, he bent slightly towards Lem’s ear.

“Do not react to what I’m about to say. You are being followed. You are in danger. If you want to live, come with us.” Stanislav couldn’t avoid a small gasp escaping his lips, and the man squeezed his shoulder tighter.

“Сыыыыыыр! (2)” the dark haired one called gleefully and he saw the one called Illya plaster a smile on his face that absolutely did not evoke any happy feelings in a person.

The shutter snapped and the other man came up to them.

“Can you drive fast?” he asked casually in a heavily accented Russian, but his eyes darted around, as if looking for a hidden target. Stanislav was wondering what the hell was going on and if he was going to get out of it alive at the end of the day, but the question had him slightly miffed.

“Can  _ I _ drive fast? Son, get in the car.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (1) dick  
> (2) cheeese! XD


	7. 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, work has been a bit hectic lately, plus I had to take a break from the Internet for a while. We had some good weather, so me and my husband decided to go cycling. I was feeling a bit down because of *gestures around* everything, but a weekend outside did wonders :D
> 
> Nevertheless, I hope you enjoy this next instalment of my work - this time we have an action chapter!

Chapter 7

This had to be the most dangerous mission they have ever been on, Solo thought as he held for his dear life in the back seat of the Wartburg while trying to shoot their pursuers at the same time. This Lem guy was a demon behind the wheel, and not the scary-but-good kind, the kind of driver that Gaby was. He was a “this whackjob is gonna get us all killed” kind of driver.

_Half an hour earlier_

When the two of them finally reached the hospital, Illya bought a newspaper in a nearby kiosk and leaned on the fence of the hospital grounds while Napoleon stood in front of the entrance smoking a cigarette, a small bouquet of flowers clutched in his hand. To any casual observer they were just two men waiting for the visiting hours to begin. 

They were observing the perimeter for about fifteen minutes when he noticed the first suspicious guy with a tell-tale bulge under his jacket. It was subtle, but he figured he had to have at least one hidden gun. The question was, was that Polish secret police on a completely unrelated business or a T.H.R.U.S.H. agent? Right now he had no way to know, so he shook his head slightly at Illya’s questioning gaze. 

Solo walked over to the trash can and put out his cigarette, scanning the small group gathered in front of the hospital gate for any additional clues. He spotted one more man, this one definitely carrying some kind of weapon stuffed down at the back of his pants. He glanced at his partner, who was holding the paper, three fingers visible on the outside. Okay, so there were more of them. This could not be a coincidence. It seemed that Lady Luck was not on their side today as T.H.R.U.S.H. had their own extraction operation planned or... they knew that U.N.C.L.E. was coming. The second option was too scary to even begin to contemplate at the moment.

Suddenly, there was a sound of tyres screeching on damp asphalt and a bright red car stopped on the other side of the street. Solo saw Illya take a book out of his bag, approaching the vehicle before anyone else could react.The American tossed the bouquet along with the cigarette butt and went after his partner, trusting his lead.

Which is how they found themselves on the streets of Krakow, chased by two black Volgas packed with Nazi goons. Illya was hanging out of the front window, his Makarov aimed at pursuing cars’s tyres as Napoleon provided cover fire.

“Is my wife going to be okay?” Lem shouted in Russian, taking another sharp turn that had Solo’s stomach rolling.

“She should be for now. They are all probably following us, you are their prime target,” he answered, ducking behind the back seat and changing his clip.

“When we shake these guys we have to warn your family. They have to go somewhere safe,” Illya added and smiled darkly as he successfully incapacitated the first car. 

“Where are we going?!” 

“Right now, anywhere! We need to get rid of those guys behind us,” Solo finally managed to reload his gun in spite of being tossed around the back seat like a sack of potatoes by the writer’s crazy driving. “Peril! Any progress?” he shouted to his partner in English.

“Am working on it,” Illya grit through his teeth as he aimed the gun again.

“I haf aidea!” Lem exclaimed all of a sudden in an atrocious English accent. Solo braced himself for madness that was sure to follow such a statement. 

The car went into a sharp u-turn and accelerated, speeding past their pursuers. Stanislav turned again, almost crashing into a mailbox on the corner, which they only managed to avoid thanks to Illya grabbing the steering wheel at the last moment. For the next three minutes they were driving on small one-way streets amid indignant honking and shouting - Napoleon assumed they were going in the opposite direction than the law dictated. Finally, they cleared the thick mass of buildings and ended up on a bridge, the Vistula river gleaming in the afternoon sun beneath them. The car following them emerged from the narrow street just a few seconds later, albeit not as scratched and battered as their Wartburg. 

“You! Inside!” Lem pointed at Illya who immediately ducked back into the car. The writer shifted onto the left lane and slammed the brakes so now they were parallel to the Volga. Solo tried to see logic behind this reasoning as he got ready for a full out shooting spree when their car abruptly swerved, crashing into the side of the pursuer’s vehicle. There was a horrible groaning noise as the barrier of the bridge gave out and then a huge splashing sound. Lem slammed the brakes again and everything was silent for a moment.

The writer shifted the gear into reverse and calmly continued over the bridge while onlookers started to gather around the gaping hole in the bridge’s barrier. 

  
  


***

Miraculously, no one followed them after that. Illya guessed that the police were far too busy arresting the agents in the first car and other services had their hands full fishing the second one out of the river. He glanced at the writer behind the wheel, feeling an odd mix of horror and admiration for the older man. 

“We have to ditch the car,” he heard Solo’s voice, somewhat weaker than usual, from the backseat. 

“Yes,” he replied in English.

“We have to put the car in a ditch?” Lem asked in Russian, bewildered. 

“It’s just an English phrase. It means that we have to get rid of the car somewhere, it’s too recognisable now. You speak English.” The last sentence was more of a statement than a question and Stanislav shrugged.

“I don’t so much speak it as read and write. I learned from books. I think my pronunciation might be horrible.”

“It is horrid,” said Solo in an equally horrid Russian accent.

“How did you know to ram the car into the barrier on the bridge like that? It shouldn't give out so easily under normal conditions,” Illya asked.

“Well, it’s quite simple. I knew it was weakened, because I crashed into that exact same spot last week. I told you I just bought a new car, didn’t I?” Lem replied, sporting an evil smile.

“Do you know of any safe place we might hide your car?”

“Yes, my mechanic’s house. If I can trust him with my car, I can trust him with my life.”

“You sound like a good friend of mine,” Napoleon chuckled, still a little green around the edges, but recovering fast. Lem glanced at him in the rear-view mirror.

“Ai sink is good taim to inrodiuce yorself, mai Amerikan frend.”

“Yes, but let’s stick to Russian please.” the aforementioned American seemed almost affronted at the writer’s accent.

“It’s not worse than your Russian accent, but we’ll be less conspicuous if we all speak Russian here. My Polish is sketchy at best.” Illya couldn't help but snicker at his friend’s indignant expression regarding Illya’s opinion of his language prowess.

“Fine. My name is Napoleon Solo. Yes, I am American, but we are both part of an international intelligence operation, codename U.N.C.L.E.”

Illya could see the writer’s eyebrows shoot up, making him look like a surprised egg wearing crooked spectacles. 

“So, you are an American and you are Russian, I assume?”

“Yes. Illya Kuryakin is my real name, I also work for U.N.C.L.E. Also for the KGB.”

Lem smashed the brakes again and gaped at him. A car behind them honked loudly.

“Am I under arrest?” he asked slowly, hands gripping the steering wheel tightly, knuckles turning white. Illya could imagine that the Polish man would assume something like that or even worse at the mention of his agency. He sighed, wondering not for the first time if the three letters should evoke such fear in the hearts of citizens of countries that were supposed to be the USSR’s comrades.

“No, of course not. We were sent here to save your life. Our organisation fights the Nazis.”

“Why would the Nazis target me?! The war is long over!”

“It is a complicated story… We will tell you everything when we get to a safe location. Now, drive please.” he gestured at the road and after a tense moment, Lem stepped on the clutch, shifted to the first gear and slowly started driving again.

“I am a science-fiction writer… But even for me an American and a KGB agent working together is strange.”

***

  
  


After almost twenty minutes of tense silence, they arrived at a small house in the suburbs of Krakow. Stanislav gestured at them to stay in the car as he went to the front door and rang the bell. A few moments later a portly man dressed in a white shirt stained with motor oil emerged, gasped and started speaking in rapid Polish, gesturing at the car wildly. After Lem explained something to him, he then let out a loud groan and went to open his garage doors.

They exited the car when the garage was safely closed. The mechanic looked at them, full of suspicion, but after a few reassurances from Lem he shrugged, went to retrieve a piece of grey tarp and covered the battered vehicle.

“We need something new. Can we buy that one?” Illya pointed at the black Fiat 1800 standing at the other end of the garage. “I realise it’s not exactly legal, but we have pounds, dollars or zlotys.”

Lem relayed this to his friend and the other man sighed, nodded and replied.

“He says he will give it to us for free. I would like to pay him anyway...”

“Good. But we have to leave now,” Illya nodded. The mechanic gave them the keys and after a few minutes of arguing accepted the banknotes from Stanislav.

After Lem called his best friend and asked him to take his wife and son to their cousin’s dacha in the South where they would be the safest it was time for them to go. A short-lived glaring contest with Stanislav had Illya taking the car keys and he almost heard Solo’s relieved sigh. They all got into the car and began their journey. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I read in Lem's biography that he was a complete gearhead, but a very lousy driver. I had fun incorporating that little detail into the story! I hope you had fun reading it!
> 
> Oh, and I hope somebody noticed, but I guess it's best if I clarify - when Illya's speaking Russian his grammar is correct. That's how you can tell when he's using what ;)


End file.
